Guess what? The promises of the feminist movement aren’t being delivered quite the way women had hoped:
I’m outing myself. Until now I’ve refused to talk about it with the friends, family and even strangers who are perfectly comfortable asking when I’m going to have children because, after all, I’m 39 and finally married and isn’t it about time? Even if they’re too polite to ask directly, they note how great my husband is with kids or press me for the real reason I quit my job, even when I insist it was to concentrate on my writing.
I’m tired of presenting the world with silence and a Mona Lisa smile. So here it is: yes, I’m trying to get pregnant, and, no, it isn’t happening.
I’m sorry the author isn’t able to have her cake and eat it, too. It may not be her fault; it’s entirely possible she might not be able to conceive.
But then again, it’s also possible that she’s just one more woman who’s sacrificed motherhood for her career. Thank you, Gloria Steinem.